


death and the raptor

by moderate_expenditures



Category: Tokyo Ghoul
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-09
Updated: 2021-01-02
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:47:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27900988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moderate_expenditures/pseuds/moderate_expenditures
Summary: “Miss Yoshimura,” he says, as if he knows how much the name irks her.(maybe he does)“That’s Eto to you.”
Relationships: Arima Kishou/Yoshimura Eto | Takatsuki Sen
Kudos: 16





	1. "that's eto to you"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> more than anything, she's surprised that she's alive

It's been a month since he ripped out her shoulder and spilt her guts on the mossy stone of the shrine.

She didn't mind, really.

But the way the door creaks now, the silly whine it makes when he enters—that's irritating. Enough to remind her of who he is, who she is. Enough to want to unsheathe her shitty wings, lash out and inevitably die.

Because to Eto, things made more sense when they were set on killing each other, when she could just laugh and curse and croon and mock. After all, a villain needs motivation—protagonists—conflict. Stories, those need tragedies. But this? She supposes she can still talk, though that'd just amount to rambling. Instead, her tongue grows thick in her throat and she's fiddling around with the hem of her coat like an idiot. 

So Arima breaks the silence.

“Miss Yoshimura,” he says, as if he knows how much the name irks her.

“That’s Eto to you,” she wants to say, but she can only manage condensed breath, punctuated by a curt nod.

"I understand that you're looking for inspiration."

She doesn't understand him, but she lets Arima drag her across cobblestone, still marred from their skirmish, through the parasol trees, still dripping autumn, and into Tokyo proper. 

...

"Where're we going?" she finally asks.

"I'm visiting a teacher of mine."

Her eyes narrow, before coming to the conclusion that most investigators (even the reaper) learned to kill from others. Doves and their fuckin' flocks.

Owls, on the other hand—

Maybe that's why he's stronger than her. The logic is questionable, but good food for Eto's ego. Speaking of food, she's caught the scent of something delicious. Not the sinewy cedar that Arima reeks of. Rather, it's tender and inviting, enough to make her mouth water and stomach growl.

Somehow—instinctively—Arima sees the figure before she does.

"Good evening, Akira."

Eto runs through her thoughts and sizes up the schoolgirl. "Akira" is probably around her age, but taller and pretty. Shame that Arima knows the girl; eating her is likely a no-go. The whole while Akira's just standing akimbo, glaring at Arima like he's a monster or something. Maybe he is. But Eto knows who the real monster is, and supposes that's why there's a quinque pointed at her throat. (Shit.) On the other end of the weapon, a strange thing with pale hair, that's more corpse than man. 

"It's alright Mado," Arima says. "She's with me."

...

Eto finds herself in a strange apartment, talking to strange people, courtesy of a strange boy.

At least it's comfortable. And clean. And heated, which is nearly cause for celebration. As Arima and Mado Senior catch up a room over, Akira seats herself next to Eto and takes to questions.

"So you know Arima?" she asks, with something that resembles a pout.

"I suppose." Eto moves on the sofa, slightly, inching away from the other girl. 

"What do you think of him?"

It occurs to Eto that she's not really sure what she thinks. She scours the mess that is her head for a foothold on the reaper, but she just slips and slips. Doesn't she pride herself on knowing these sort of things, knowing how characters work? Would the answer really have any value?

Akira interprets her wordlessness, in one way or another. "Well, I don't like him."

"Hm?"

"Getting all this special treatment because he's a Garden brat."

Eto stifles a small chuckle. "He's a bit of a cheater isn't he?"

"Yeah," Akira says, nodding vigorously. "He's basically a high schooler and he's already the same rank my mom was."

...

For someone who's basically a middle schooler, Akira is a wonderful cook. Her handiwork consists of an umami broth, courted with bonito topped rice and a spicy tonkatsu. Eto imagines she's scarfing it down like an animal, but she can afford to defer embarrassment. Because it's nothing like the human food she usually scrounges up, and it's so good that she almost forgets what _other_ things taste like.

Almost.

Arima just eyes her with keen interest, like he's never seen a ghoul eat before. Or worse, like he wants to turn her into a fucking suitcase. 

She doesn't understand him, that shy-stupid-sad grin of his, and the ridiculous idea of bringing a ghoul here, of all places. 

...

The park bench is cold, but warmer than Eto's used to. 

"Her mother, I—"

"Yes," Arima confirms. "We killed Kasuka Mado."

 _We_? Eto rolls the blame around in her mouth, feels the little tragedy settle nice and soft against her throat. It does have a nice ring to it. But before she can pine over all the details, Arima gets up and beckons for her to follow.

“Miss Yoshimura,” he says, as if he knows how much the name irks her.

(maybe he does)


	2. material

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> an owl plays human, to the tune of unnecessary goods  
> (or, eto moves in to a new apartment)

She'd never owned a cell phone before—at least, never for longer than the time it took to pawn one off. 

Eto peers at the gift, runs her fingers over the cracked screen and torn chassis. It was to be expected. Most broken things don't just conveniently heal.

Still.

 _Arima Kishou, maimer of ghouls, reaper of small electronic devices._ The thought coaxes out a thin smile, but her lips uncurl soon enough. Shunji Shiono is predictably livid, and too loud to ignore.

"Destroyed?!"

Eto nods.

"How even—" Shiono scratches his head. "Nevermind. Listen, missy, if I can't contact you, then I can't do my job, and if I can't do my job, you can't do your job, and if that's the case, then Shoeisha'll have both our heads."

"Ah," she says, but really, she's wondering if a ghoul could survive such a thing.

Her editor just stares. "At least tell me where I can find you when I need to talk? Which orphanage? Ward?"

"..."

...

"You live _here_?"

(she could afford to be more materially concerned)

...

The studio is small, flanked on all sides by beige walls that look like they'd cave in at the touch. Shiono had insisted on doing a more extensive (expensive?) tour of the city, but she'd simply smiled and told him it was sufficient.

"Don't think of yourself as a charity case, this'll be easier for the both of us."

"Okay," Eto says, before adding, "—thanks."

Of all the places she'd called home, this would be the strangest. For one, she's not used to the view. Gone are the parasol trees and decapitated statues, or the telltale ruins of the 24th ward. Instead, there's this crooked skyline outlined by whispers of orange, sometimes grey. It's hard to describe, but Eto thinks disgusting is apt. She grows to appreciate the alleyway below though, the questionable legality of its affairs, and the way midnight neon reflects on wet concrete after an evening shower.

What's more, she has neighbors. _Human_ neighbors. Sometimes she sees them in the morning and can't help but return a smile (their lives are simple). Sometimes she finds herself visiting, sharing a cup of tea (they're stupid). Eventually, she learns to look forward to the minutia of interaction (they're wonderful).

But.

Eto refuses to learn the meaning of envy. Whenever the voice in the back of her head begins to whimper, she quashes it with material. The material of Takatsuki, that is. She turns her neighbors into characters—numbers in a draft about prisoners—implants them with vile chains fueled by memory and regret. Because that's all they are. Stupid, simple (wonderful) humans, dawdling in a birdcage they don't even know exists.

And as a story would, her apartment changes. Blank space becomes inundated with text, ink, parchment—books she loves, books she hates, and by the time Arima visits, she's uncharacteristically prideful of her shitty nest.

"Isn't this a bit reckless?" he asks, framed in dim yellow light.

Reckless? The fact that a SSS-rate ghoul is idling in the heart of Tokyo? The fact that they're meeting here? The fact that "they" exist?

"What?" Eto raises an eyebrow. "It'll be easier for the both of us."


	3. astraphobia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> takatsuki sen plays ghoul, to the tune of necessary evils

Sometimes it feels like she's talking to a damn wall, which is depressing, since it's her job to use words efficiently. 

"A press release?" Arima asks.

"That is what I said."

"For your novel?"

Eto peels off her glasses and lets the book in her lap fall to the ground. 

"Obviously." 

He sits up, meets her frown, and says, "Takatsuki Sen could afford to miss it."

" _Eto Yoshimura_ would like to go."

She says it like she deserves it, like he owes it to her. After all, it's just one stupid event. Shiono will be there to sing her praises, she can make herself look pretty in front of the cameras, and for one fleeting night it'll feel like nothing else matters. 

"We can't reschedule a raid," Arima repeats for the umpteenth time.

A smirk. "Then do it without me."

...

Kishou Arima doesn't mind the rain.

He's used to the dulled senses it brings, the way it turns screaming into muted noise and washes away blood. It allows the reaper something to lose himself to, something that isn't just killing, and for that he's exceptionally grateful.

(there aren't many things that he's grateful for, and if you'd ask him he'd start with a good book or—)

Ghouls on the other hand, would answer differently. For them, functioning senses are essential. Taste, as to savor the saccharine flesh of their prey. Vision, with pitch eyes aflame, and the minutia of scents and sounds. All to hunt. Or evade. Because against Arima, evasion is the only option.

Twenty, maybe thirty meters ahead, a child shivers against the rough of concrete.

Ten meters behind, two more ghouls stifle their breaths.

Yet five kilometers away, a stage is restless.

_Takatsuki Sen. Takatsuki-sensei?_

The whispers begin hushed and sparse, but grow needy and raucous with time. Moisture gathers above Eto's brow as she plays along. She squints against camera shutters crackling with enthusiasm, flashes of light already framing her face. But most importantly, she remembers Arima's words.

"Please enjoy yourself."

Except.

That's not the sound of applause. Nor are are those camera flashes. Shunji Shiono is desperate because Takatsuki Sen is missing from her own press conference.

Instead, she is falling, swimming in thunder, rain, and lightning. 

...

It's a shame because she's had her hair done and face all prettied up, but the rain is ruining it all. Eto breathes in, feels the the muscles on her back twitch, twist, and writhe with pressure. Like a warped tree, the structure grows, kakuhou birthing kagune birthing kakuja.

Until she's wreathed in pale armor and crimson plumage. 

Until the sheer energy of her transformation causes rain to steam and hiss on contact.

Until, the One-Eyed Owl stands before Kishou Arima.

Sometimes it feels like she's talking to a damn wall, but when they fight, _dance_ , no words are lost. When the other ghouls scatter to escape, Eto smiles, while "thank you" plays on Arima's lips.

And for the rest of the night, it feels like nothing else matters.


	4. artistic license

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> death lingers in ink

Arima's birthday was a few days ago, but it didn't feel right to celebrate. To Eto, at least, in which the awkward silence of death and deliberation made itself known via the lump in her throat, and the invisible list idling in her head.

She'd went through the casualties, carefully.

Again and again.

Until she felt so far removed that their names lost all sense of meaning.

Now, once more, again.

Yamori.

The Bins.

 _So_ many. Can she even remember them?

She shakes her head, reminds herself that they won't have the same names in the book.

In the world of King Bileygr, _her_ Jason will go out a martyr. He will be well spoken, candid, and tend toward painting rather than their shared pastime of torture. Her Bin brothers will dispense with the antisocialisms that remind her of another person she finds immensely disagreeable. And the protagonist? Eto laughs, which startles the idiot next to her. _God._ It all feels so trite, the way she embellishes each and every member of Aogiri, how she smooths out all their obvious character flaws and makes them capable of being loved. She supposes, in a sense, that she owes it to them. That this was their reward for their loyalty.

But the dead don't want for anything.

Eto meets her romanticism with embarrassment, then pursed lips—attempts the purge the red from her suddenly hot cheeks. And of course, Arima feeds the contrarian in her. He talks about how it's better to write them the way they were, because it's somehow insulting to twist and turn them into something that they're not. She calls him a hypocrite and he nods, curtly. They were both desperately pining at change. 

In the end, they aren't afforded the luxury of change. The reaper is the reaper and the witch the witch. Of this, she's self assured—that the two characters will go the way of her other novels.

And for the first time in a long time, the tragedy thoroughly terrifies. 

Because it would be real. Something that leaps from the pages, and whisks them away to nonexistence. 

...

"Arima."

"Eto."

"What do you think of the sea?"

"It exists."

A sigh.

"We could steal a boat and—"

"Buy a boat."

Her middle finger.

 _"Steal_ a boat and just leave. Wouldn't that be wonderful?"

"Could you?"


End file.
